Stages
by FoenFyre
Summary: He can't help but go through this, every time he has to visit.
1. A Query

Blanket Disclaimer for this Fic: The characters from _Hetalia_ do not belong to me, obviously. I just secretly wish they did...

**SUMMARY**: _He can't help but go through this, every time he has to visit._

_**A/N: **This fic was an experiment for me, as I had an idea bouncing in my head, and really, the summary is not a lie, despite how it will seem to not to match up in future chapters. There will be five additional sections, not too long, but not this short. It almost broke my brain writing the whole, really, so I hope you enjoy it._

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_**Zero**_

**A Query**

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His eyes snap open, and he takes in a deep breath. The covers are cool around him, despite it being a warm night, and he can hear the sounds of the city filter in through his window, half-open as it is.

He's on the verge of realizing something, his heart beat solid, steady and real in the almost complete blackness of his room (_lights shine in to reveal things he doesn't care to see_). Whispers in his head, voices call, saying many things he can't wrap his mind around, and then he sighs.

He'll deal with this later, whatever it is. Everything looks better in the morning.

And yet he falls into darkness with voices telling him otherwise, of something (_that is just beginning, is the start…_).

And he thinks, for his final thought, _when will it end_?


	2. Detachment

_**SUMMARY:**_ He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit.

**_A/N_**: Thanks for the alerts.

And thanks to the reviewer, D.G. Ling: They vary in length, but are nowhere close to the (short) length of the first part.

***I hope I haven't disappointed you all with this part.

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**Stages**

_**One**_

**Detachment**

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With far-away eyes and a frown—

He's sitting in a café, waiting for his drink to cool.

The area by the windows is deserted, for one reason or even more. The simplest explanation is the dreary atmosphere outside: To _them_ it's horrid, with its rain and lack of sunlight and warmth.

The curtain of rain outside is only a suggestion, but a strong one, enough to deter most of the café's occupants from leaving this little haven. He scoffs, thinking of home (_which, strangely, is just a vague imprint in his mind_). Compared to that, this slight irregularity (_it should be bright blue sky outside_) is nothing.

There's some nameless tune playing through the speakers in the ceiling, and he can't bring himself to care one wit about it. It's trashy, teeny-bopper pop that's all technology and not enough substance. It has no meaning or feeling behind it, and will not leave a lasting imprint on this generation or the next.

What part of him is listening, the artist, despairs for the youth of today, and he tries to steer away from those thoughts. If he thinks about it, it will become all but impossible to start, and the cycle would simply begin again…A writer's art is a curse, he thinks, for it must come naturally or not at all.

The liquid has cooled, and his hand curls around the styrofoam cup, only wincing once at the old ache (_the one that stop his hands from holding onto anything with ease...he can't imagine how he had gotten it_) that accompanies the gesture.

The name of the place is not memorable, at least, because it is one of many in the area and he is just passing through, a common nomad in this city, searching, like so many, for some inspiration. New York is apparently where dreams are made (_or is that Hollywood?)_, and America's _The Land of Opportunity_.

It seems full of promise, though nothing is different and more familiar than strange.

Honestly, he doesn't know why he has stayed (even if only for three days thus far) except for that small voice in his head that tells him he must. And he has learned not to ignore those voices (_stay, stay, stay, or…_), no matter how distinctly different from his consciousness they feel. Or the veiled memories they evoke (_why don't you stay with me forever –?_)

He takes a sip, staring out into the bleary city, and wonders if this is some sign he'll never escape from home, but turns away and broods quietly, thinking of his possible futures.

He muses over this, and then blinks for only a moment as he realizes there is nothing else but the future to think on. No past, no present, nothing...just the future and a blank something he cannot clearly recall.

Yet, this for some reason does not disturb him. In fact, it seems as if this is normal, and the murmurs in his mind agree in near-silent chorus. With that matter resolved, he decides to get on with finishing his tea.

He can't let it get cold, after all.


	3. Mounting Regret and Memories

**SUMMARY:** _He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit._

_**A/N:** Thanks to IceSnowAndGlamour for the review...I know my wording is weird sometimes, but I hope it doesn't get too bad._

_Oh, and a familiar character will finally be showing up next chapter...He just forced himself into the story with no concern as to my plot. So like him._

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_**Stage **_

_**Two**_

**Mounting Regret and Memories**

**

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**

Upon second wander, the fourth day, the city is more than he thought it would be.

While sitting on a creaky bench, surrounded by the sounds and sights of a bright city, he writes in his notebook (_which he always keeps on hand, for a writer cannot be without his tool_). He writes of a city of two faces, two lives, and the page reads:

_It was a city of Light, a city of Darkness…a city of Hope and a city of Despair…_

But he cuts himself off, faintly recalling (_a whisper beyond that hidden window slithers through his mind_) that he had written something similar before, and he moves the tear the page out and start again. He doesn't know why he is a writer, or just what he plans to write, so it should mean nothing. Nothing at all.

But he stops. He stares at it with something growing in the pit of his chest (_homesickness? No, not that…_) and leaves it be, standing, and shutting his notebook, moving on to the next scene.

Someone bumps into him, as he ducks his head down and tries to get lost in the crowd, and he hears a child's laughter, far away and mixed in the sound of the voice of the city.

"You can't catch me!"

_You can't keep me._

"Come back, please?"

_Come back to me._

"Okay, okay."

_Why can't you?..._

And he blinks at the thoughts that mix his mind around and have him look for the voice of a solitary person, rather than the chaotic symphony of people in the streets. He expects something, and waits against the tide of people passing him, muttering angrily or jostling him in order to get where they are going.

He is a rock in that river, unmoving until all the street lamps turn on and the chill is a little more than bearable. He shivers for a moment, before steeling himself and shaking the cold off.

He finally moves away, and leaves his mind behind, tracing his steps back to his hotel in a muddle of thoughts.

He needs to find somewhere else to be tomorrow.


	4. Anger, Hurt and Decision

**SUMMARY:** _He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit._

A/N: Happy New Year y'all!

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_**Stage **_

_**Three**_

**Anger, Hurt and Decision**

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He is on the streets again, on his fifth day, mumbling some nonsensical words that sound as if they come out of a fairytale, which they probably have, because the reason he actually feels as if something will appear or happen when he says them must stem from childhood stories (_which fostered childhood hopes_), or the voices in his head are really getting to him. They call to him (_call us, call us…_) and though he obliges, he _knows_ that the call won't do anything. And maybe, that's the reason it won't.

His legs tiring, he pauses and looks at the stores all bustling with shoppers and the most dedicated of consumers: a scene which emphasizes capitalism at its best. He scoffs half-heartedly, his eyes catching on something bright gold (_something familiar in this familiarity_), before realizing he is falling for their tricks, and so pulls away before he can be drawn into that ravenous machine. He knows, though he leaves, the beast will keep devouring and devouring, hearts, souls and all other things of worth in this world (_yet, he feels a mite too cynical in his assessment and feels a hypocrite when his latest purchases come to mind_).

He knows no one on these streets, though he sees bits and pieces of familiar features in the wide variety of Americans passing him with nary an interested glance (_maybe it's that self-assured stance, that shining bit of the future reflected in their eyes_), and some children, who are quickly towed away by their mothers, point at him in curiosity and awe. He scowls at them, his mumbling growing a little louder until he realizes that he is growing less sure that nothing will happen, and his mouth shuts closed with a _snap_. His uncertainty makes him feel sure that something could and will happen, but he won't take that risk, and he spirals further into his developing plot.

He spies a bench, nestled in between the entrance to a McDonald's and a movie theater, and moves slowly, his eye catching on the golden arch and the titles of the movies playing (one pair in particular catching his eye):

_Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull_

_Quantum of Solace, a James Bond Film  
_

And then he can't bring himself to continue reading them anymore.

The smell of French fries and hamburgers drifts around him, prompting a growl from his stomach. He endures for a few moments more, gnawing his teeth, but gives in and exits minutes later with a full and hearty McDonald's meal. He returns to his seat, noticing that the bench has earned another occupant, but he ignores him (_as is the custom in this city_) in favor of eating his meal. He begins with French fries, his least favorite part, intending on working on making the burger the finale (_his favorite_) of the meal.

"And _I_ thought you hated his food." The stranger has a lilt to his voice, and he stiffens with the realization that his neighbor is French (_something in him boils with unholy rage, but he smothers it quickly with thoughts of tomorrow_).

"I—"He attempts to snipe, but his efforts are wasted as the Frenchman breezes on.

"I mean, the _howling and utter foo_l you make of yourself proclaiming it _almost_ made me believe you." There is something ironic in that tone, something that he doesn't appreciate, and he makes to stand when an affectionate hand brushes against his face and pale blue eyes stare at him with a smirk in their depths. Wavy blond hair (_not that gold_) brushes the man's face in a caress as he tilts it close to his own.

"You do not need to explain yourself, _mon cher_. I was just passing through, so enjoy…that meal of yours." And the stranger (_was he really?_) is gone in a whisper.

He sits, numb to the strange experience, and tries to push it from his mind as he absent-mindedly grabs some of his extra napkins and rubs at his face until it burns and there is nothing that could possibly be left on him. Something soft (_like rose petals_) had brushed him, he was sure. He looks around, wary, ending what he had never even been allowed to begin,

"I don't know who you are. So you should just clear off." And when he feels that he has been heard (_a voice that says, _for now_, sounds in his head_), he wraps half of the burger in its foil, and bites into it with relish. He feels like he will need this, later, for whatever reason. He's decided on a course of action, though he doesn't know exactly what action he's decided on, yet.

And he doesn't question it. He's suddenly feeling closer to whatever it is he needs to do now, than he had been before.

That is all the reason he needs.


	5. Excitement and Hope

SUMMARY: He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit.

A/N: First, sorry this section is so short by the way, but the second to last one makes up for it...It's actually interesting having typed all this before hand and needing to just edit and review it without that incessant need to _write, write more_ before I lose the thread.

It's winding down now, amazingly...just a few sections left. And, a final note:

Where is it said this guy is _England_?

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_**Four**_

**Excitement and Hope**

* * *

There is something in the air, this day, the sixth. It thrums and dances through his bones, making him alert and ready for something he doesn't know will or will not happen. But that doesn't matter much to him at the moment as he tries to argue his way onto the subway, having been stopped by security guards with glints in their eyes that put him on edge.

Admittedly, his pants are a little torn, and his shirt a bit tight, but it's no worse than those other people who rush onto the subways everyday. So when he's stopped, he doesn't care to be cowed by arrogant jerks in crumpled uniforms.

They stare at him, and he stares right back.

"Lookie here, a Limey." One says, his voice thick and blunt. " Whatcha doing so far from home? " He isn't sure what gives him this idea, as he certainly hasn't been speaking to anyone since he entered the tunnel. "Sure you can handle facing the guys who kicked your asses across the sea?" Something in him throbs, defiant, and his face sets stiffly (_voices chitter-chatter in the air, telling him of bravery and an unsetting sun)_. Then, this man doesn't particularly matter anymore.

He, politely, asks him what his problem is, and perhaps, maybe, could he take a mint to freshen up that atrocious breath of his. And, mayhap, do his friends need them as well.

The man turns red for a second, his eyes flashing and his arm grasping as his fellows mirror him just several steps behind.

Now, he feels that he is about to be beaten within an inch of his life, but he isn't worried. There are taller, fouler monsters than this man and his cohorts in reality, and he isn't about to waste his worry on such fleeting figures. His fists clench without a thought, and he thinks of the high seas as he dodges the first few blows. He thinks of the fierce ocean wind whipping by him, and his defiant dances with it, born from something he cannot as of now remember.

And then he smiles fondly (_widely, like he hasn't for days_), leaning back enough to brutally kick a man between his legs and leave him groaning with his fellows on the floor. He bids them good-bye, brushing off his striped shirt (_like a heart, the sky and the sea_), feeling proud of himself for some reason until he realizes his heart is beating down seconds he can't for the life of him waste any longer, and he speeds off to the train he has come board.

* * *

The trip passes by quickly as he makes a game of avoiding the eyes of the other passengers and tapping his fingers against the metal walls, in tune to a Beatles tune someone is listening to on speakers further down the train. His foot taps and his face relaxes, falling into that song as his lips mouth the lyrics:

_hey jude,_

_don't make it bad, _

_take a sad song and make it better, _

_remember to let her into your heart…_

when he sees the sign signal his stop, and he steps off without a thought.

Maybe he will make_ it (the possibility his mind has yet to grasp)_ better, one day. _Someday_, he thinks, and something in him erupts.

When he prepares for sleep, he pulls out his notebook and writes, and writes, and writes…

.

The message in his heart.


	6. Realization

**_SUMMARY:_** _He can't help but go through this, every time he has to visit._

**A/N:** Ah, so long yes? Well, I'm sorry, for what it's worth, and hope the quality hasn't worsened from when I last posted. We're really entering the final stretch now. Can you tell me what you think is happening? Who you think this character is? Oh, and the other half of the listed characters finally appears, if you were wondering. Hope you enjoy!

Too, thanks to reviewers! ;D

...

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**_Five_**

**Realization**

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He finds himself stuck in another bout of rain, the seventh day, muttering curses (completely certain curses) with careful watch over his surroundings as he clutches a tattered umbrella close and over his head. He can't afford to get a cold with only this as his last day in the city. Tomorrow, he leaves to go back home.

And today is the day he will find it.

The rain beats softly against his umbrella, beating against every surface, and emphasizing the fact that he is, in fact, alone in this desolate scene. Everyone is safe at home or somewhere rainless, and he is out here with a purpose yet to be defined.

It's a rather lonely purpose (_the one that hasn't yet been born_), but he will take what he can get.

However, he can't help but think of this country as mercurial, one minute this way, and then the other way that: a mix of people, weather, and interests that mix like a whirlpool and make irregularity normal, everyday fare. Because of this, he can't see the rain lasting longer than a moment, longer than it perhaps needs to, and soon enough, this is proven true.

The sun shines then, breaking away from the embrace of heavy clouds, and the streets disappear quickly under footsteps and lives. He is in the middle of a mass of humanity that acts as if it had never left home. A sudden scene change so natural, he almost cannot help but fall into it and become a part of its natural ease. He is sure that if he ever looked, a niche would be there, waiting and beckoning like his favorite song on the radio.

He feels warm (_as if_ _there is someone hugging him_), and folds up his umbrella, beginning to walk towards the other end of the block, his steps feeling brighter with every inch traveled.

His book feels heavy in his front pocket, its verse a record of his thoughts and a bundle of something he thinks has been building for this solitary week of not the present, but something else. Something that is there, but not.

His footsteps quicken in their pace as he glides through the mass like he's waltzing, and makes it to the end of the street, or something like it (_because you can't really tell much about the truth of this place, as layered as it is_). And he is feeling lighter and lighter, almost to the point of impossibility but he moves forward until another block is passed and he's right where he wants to be.

He's at a square, one of several in this city that beats, shivers, and lives like a heart, and at the end of his line of sight is gold. Gold that is not gold, but _gold_.

There is a face attached, he sees as he comes closer (_he feels so light and uncertain now, and the voices that don't speak are growing louder_), blue eyes and a certain light that makes them seem shining. The other is smiling, a _goldenfieldsbeautytruthseeyou_ smile that has him respond in kind. He doesn't think he's ever really felt this way before. Really…he feels like he is remembering something, but the way it encompasses him is terrifying in how it doesn't scare him.

Something else grows in him, the sequel to what led to the creation of the story in the book he will not—would not offer to the world for all its wealth. And it is strong, growing stronger as he feels lighter, and he wonders if this is—

He really, for some reason, wants to show the shining stranger his book (_what he wrote that night before, pouring everything into the little book that became something more, that is now for this single, solitary moment_), and tell him about everything he's seen and felt and maybe find out why he's in a city with only the future in mind when all he wants is it and the past too…He is so excited that he begins to run, run towards the person with the shining smile until it seems that they will collide, and…

...

...

...

...

...

...

_He runs right through him._

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...

**_A/N:_** Yes. You read that right.


	7. Here

_SUMMARY:_ **He can't help but go through this, every time he has to visit.**

_Thanks to all my viewers and reviewers. After months of procrastination, I finally got myself to sit down and finish this in a bout of insomnia._

_This is like the first story I've finished, so I hope this a fitting end to all of this._

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_**Six**_

**Here**

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There is a moment of disbelief, followed by an explosion of realization that strains the boundaries of his existence as they are now, before it all settles into a steady calm. A calm like a summer sea on a clear day, with the breeze wrapping round like mischievous sylphs intent on playing a game with their earth-bound counterparts.

He turns, feeling little more than a breeze himself, and looks to the shining man who has so caught his fascination (_and his hea—_). The figure is standing proud and tall, a defiant tilt to his face and a wide smile that threatens to devour everything in its pure, undiluted joy. Like a planet, everything seems to orbit him, like small moons. The crowd, the emotion, his thoughts…all of it revolves around him.

In this place, in this moment, that man _is_ the world.

He thinks for a moment, and in that moment, understands just what it all means. Why he is here, what this entire week has been about…and he thinks, _of course_.

He is here because _he_ is here, because, when it comes down to it...

He understands then, in some twisted backwards way that only begins to make sense now that he's fading back into…He feels melancholy, but only a bit.

He's not really real after all.

He waves at him then, as the golden boy turns around and his eyes widen _just so_, a bittersweet smile on his lips, and fades…

* * *

"Ar—thur!" America stands ahead of him, arms crossed and his grin as wide as ever. His luggage is tightly held in his hands (_never be too loose with your effects abroad, of course_), and his arms are steadily tiring from their weight. England glares at the boy then, intent on making his troubles known as is so often his want, when he is scooped up into a bear hug that he splutters and curses at while he has the breath to.

"St—stop! You idiot! I can't hold all this and deal with your man-handling!" His voice is incensed, as is his body, but somewhere within him warms at the sign of affection, as it always has, and always will. America only hugs him tighter then (_little more gently_), before letting him out of his hold, and stepping back with brief laughter and smirk. The scene has changed now, though their location hasn't.

It's back to conflict then, as America is never constant or as predictable in his moods as his demeanor would suggest. Sometimes, it _almost_ tires England out, but he never allows it to.

He just—can't.

"Can't handle a little hug, old man?" England withholds the urge to snap back that, yes, he could handle it when he wasn't in a position to drop both his laptop and all his belongings because some brute doesn't understand that he's just come out of an impossibly long taxi ride that would have been shorter if someone had bothered to pick him up hours ago—but something catches his attention.

It's the flicker of a reflection that he only manages to catch because the whispers of his faerie friends quickly point it out. It glimmers against the backdrop of skyscrapers and people, formed like a person and staring at him with _his eyes _(_and_ _smiling?_). It's him, England thinks, or it something that wishes it was. America watches him curiously, the playful tint to his expression gone as he subtly glances behind him in worry and fear. England faintly wonders if all these threats have finally have finally begun to take their toll on America, the so often the oblivious git that we was, as he begins to mutter a curse that will send the blighted spirit to whichever hell it belongs to, when he is cut short.

It waves briefly before it disappears, and that is that.

"England?" America calls quietly, whispering with urgency he tries to hide behind a Hollywood smile. "What was—is it?" England looks at him then, at his face which is almost (_and how often it is that_) normal if not for the small glint of _nononono!_ in his eyes, and responds,

"Nothing. It's a false alarm." America sighs, and England thinks, as he occasionally does when its moments with just the two of them and no expectations to live up to (_you mustn't be so close to him, England_), that it isn't that he can't see faeries and the magical, it's that he doesn't let himself to. And that leads to thoughts about what could have happened to bring about something as sad as that.

"Great!" His companion cheers and stretches so that his striped t-shirt (_what he had thought was America's_) is clearly visible behind his jacket, a Union Jack so proudly emblazoned upon it that makes England blush.

"What are you wearing?" England jerks out of his hold, a tirade prepared and waiting, and glares at America who smiles sheepishly.

"I just had it lying around, ya'know?" He scratches at his head and looks deliberately at the sun, which hides his face (_was that a small blush?_) from England. "And I thought, '_wouldn't it be awesome to wear it today, 'cause England's visiting and all?_'. And I decided to wear it. My boss saw it, and was cool with it too! He said something about it being diplomatic and stuff, especially with…everything going on." There is normal shrug to dismiss the kind of thoughtful, kind gesture that England sometimes forgets America can commit without prompting, and the moment shudders but does not break as England steps forward with an _almost-there_ smile. America laughs in burst, and carefully looks down with a shining expression on his face and carefully asks,

"You aren't going to hit me, are you?' England ignores the baiting for what it is, because sometimes America tries so hard to be what he isn't but should be, and hugs the man who was his boy, and is now entirely something else.

"No, I'm not," he says evenly.

'Thank you,' he thinks in the safety of his own mind.

And the day proceeds as it does.

* * *

A/N: I really have no solid idea of who "he" was, but I suppose you can interpret it as you will. I'm welcome to anyone commenting on what they think everything that happened was about. It'd be cool to compare what I think happened to what anyone else does.


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